


Cloths of Heaven

by elioliver



Series: The Yeatsian Catalogue [1]
Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017), Call Me By Your Name - All Media Types
Genre: Elio lives in a dope loft, Elio's Daughter, M/M, Professor Oliver, Unrequited Love, shy oliver is shy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-08
Updated: 2018-03-21
Packaged: 2019-03-28 12:53:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 13,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13904430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elioliver/pseuds/elioliver
Summary: New York City. Paris. Milan.Oliver and Elio are two great loves that have been parted by the whims of fate and circumstance for 25 years. When Oliver, now an esteemed professor at Columbia University, meets a bright young student in his sophomore seminar, he is elated and terrified to find that her last name is Perlman.





	1. If I Had the Heavens' Embroidered Cloths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oliver meets another Perlman.

**New York City, January 2008**

The small group of students had been muttering about leaving class for ten minutes by the time Oliver stepped over the threshold. Thirteen minutes late, judging by the analog clock hanging lopsided on the wall opposite the door. He was never late, especially not on syllabus day, and he was kicking himself for being so callous on the first day of class. Luckily, it was a three hour discussion course, and the syllabus was only a few scant pages; he would have been out of his mind if he had run that late to a lecture. He smiled a bright hello, scrawling his name quickly across the whiteboard before lowering his bag to the floor and signing into the instructor’s desktop in front of him.

 

“Hello, everybody. My name is Dr. Oliver Green, and if you’ll all pull out your laptops and check your email, you’ll see that I have sent all of you the syllabus for this semester.” Instantaneously he heard a familiar chorus of zippers and keyboards, rustling papers and clicking pens. “I’m going to pull up a quick powerpoint to run through our schedule for the next few months, and I’ll call roll as well—since this is such a small class, I hope to learn all of your names in the next couple of weeks,” he finished, cueing his students to return to their murmured conversations. His fingers poked and prodded at the keys until the first slide finally appeared, projected with slight distortion onto an aging whiteboard.

 

**VIRTUE & HAPPINESS: PHILOSOPHY IN CLASSICAL ROME**

**CLASSICS DEPARTMENT, COLUMBIA**

**PROFESSOR OLIVER GREEN**

 

“Alright then,” Oliver began with another smile. “Let’s start with attendance and introductions. When I call your name, tell me your major.” He shuffled through a few papers on the desk before finding the correct sheet. Here we go.

 

Monica Aronson? Classics.

John Clark? English and Political Science.

Alicia Chrzanowski? Philosophy.

Markus Eaton? English.

Lena Hernandez? Art History.

Jason Jeffries? Political Science. Call me JJ.

Bryan Jordan? Pre-Law.

Molly Oliver? History.

Eleonora…. Perlman. Eleonora Perlman? Music Theory and Philosophy. Call me Nora.

Mira Rodham? History….

 

The rest of the names blurred by in Oliver’s mind. Perlman. Perlman, Perlman, Perlman, Perlman, Perlman, Perlman. Elio, Elio, Elio, Elio, Elio, Elio, Elio. Eleonora. He jotted down nicknames next to given names on his class roster, he scrolled through the slides and introduced himself, he underlined due dates and priced textbooks and assigned readings, but all he could think about was Elio.

 

An hour and a half before class was supposed to end, he closed the powerpoint and cleared his throat. “Well, thank you all for coming. I’ll see you next Thursday, and don’t forget to purchase your texts.” He heard that familiar chorus again, the zippers and slamming laptops harmonizing with the screech of metal chair legs against the tile floor. The words tumbled out of his mouth before he had a chance to look them over for himself.

 

“Nora, would you stay for one second?”

 

Nora, light brown waves framing her surprised face, motioned to a friend to leave without her before standing at her desk and reassuring her with a call of “Later!”

 

Oliver’s heart dropped into his stomach. It could not be. For all he knew, Elio was in Italy or France or England, an old bachelor with zero children. The odds of the bemused young woman standing in front of him being the daughter of his old… of his Oliver had to be one in a million. But he had to know for sure.

 

“Nora, I hope I’m not keeping you from making an appointment.” Oliver said, hoping that perhaps she would confess that she had to go, inadvertently keeping him from making a fool of himself. But she just shook her head, drawing closer to his podium. “Well, back when I was about your age, I knew a family of Perlmans—I even lived with them for a short time.” Before he could continue, Nora cut him off. “Oh, I’m sure it was a different set of Perlmans, Dr. Green. My father is European, we didn’t even come to the states until I started university.” She smiled at him with a gentle kindness that reminded him of his own professor all those summers ago. Oliver found that his words were catching in his throat.

 

“Is your father Elio Perlman?” He asked, after clearing his throat for the thousandth time. Nora’s eyes grew wide, and she smiled broadly. “Well, yes. Yeah, that’s his name.” Oliver swallowed. What exactly was professional protocol in this scenario? Should he ask where Elio is? Didn't she say that he was stateside? Was it too much to ask for an email address, a phone number? Was her mother here too?

 

Without warning, Nora laughed a laugh so charming and so joyful that Oliver was immediately disarmed. "You'll have to forgive me," she said with a grin, "but Elio told me that he knew a professor at Columbia, an old friend from vacations in Crema. I just always assumed it would be an old Italian man, not a middle-aged American who somehow made his way over to northern Italy for a summer in the mid-eighties.” She beamed at him for a minute, shaking her head at herself before whipping a pen and paper out of her bag and jotting something down.

 

“Here,” she said, her voice lowering to an almost conspiratorial level. “I am sure that he would love to hear from you.” With that she left, slinging her bag over her shoulder and sliding into a hall crowded with lost freshman. Oliver stared after her for a moment before unfolding the paper he had handed him.

 

**ELIO PERLMAN**

**(646) 287 9018**

**we live over bondesan trattoria on 11th ave.**

**he eats lunch on there almost everyday.**

**good luck, pro**

**nora**

 

It would take him a while to realize that Nora had examined his bare ring finger before giving him the note; it would take him less time to act on the information she had given him.


	2. Enwrought With Golden and Silver Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An overwhelmed Elio delivers a testimonial.

**Paris, October 2004**

 

“Nora.”

 

Elio knocked against the heavy oak door again. No response.

 

“Eleonora, please.” Elio was growing desperate and his voice was giving him away. By now, he had been a single parent for just as long as he’d been one half of a pair, but every melodramatic moment of Nora’s adolescence left him missing his wife more and more.

 

He could hear her shuffling around her room, the crying having faded out several minutes ago. She had been distraught for hours, it seemed, and Elio felt helpless, trying to channel the wisdom of his father and the tenderness of his mother to no avail. He knew it had something to do with the older girl, Narcisse, who had taken his daughter under her wing.

 

Or at least that’s the anglicism Nora had used. He had met Narcisse only once, which was all it took to see the shift in Nora’s disposition around her. Their bent waists in the restaurant booth, shoulders almost imperceptibly gravitating towards each other; the look in both pairs of eyes when they locked—their faces completely unreadable, but eyes ready to spark a wildfire. He had gone away to the restroom and returned to find Nora’s head in the crook of Narcisse’s neck, Narcisse murmuring something in broken Italian while an expression of delight played over his daughter’s face. He hid behind decorative column until they had broken apart, unwilling to interrupt two people managing to have a private moment in a crowded restaurant.

 

Elio should have asked more questions, been more open with Nora. She was so pure, so perfect; so ready to fall in love and have her heart dashed against the rocks. For once, he had valuable experience. He should have said something.

 

He swivelled on his heels and leaned against the door, slowly sinking to his knees. The hardwood felt warm and nearly pliant under his hands, and he was reminded of that old attic space in the villa, worn floors practically bending underneath the balls of his feet. _What did you do?_ Elio shuddered at the sudden memory.

 

“Nora, you don’t have to listen to me, but you’re going to hear me for a moment, _d’accord_?”

 

Elio heard her still and, with what little echolocation skills he had, discerned that she was near the door, probably sitting at her desk.

 

“I’m not going to ask you to tell me what happened. If you want to tell me, you’ll tell me, I know.”

 

Silence. He wondered if he should stop now, give her more space. But at this point, a speech seemed inevitable.

 

“Narcisse seems like a really lovely person. Not as lovely as you, in your father’s eyes, but very lovely all the same.”

 

Sniffle.

 

“And I’m certain that the two of you have a… bond. And that is a very beautiful thing. It’s something to be treasured, something that not everyone gets to experience.”

 

The scrape of wooden chair legs against the floor.

 

“I remember when I first fell in love.”

 

At this, the door fell open behind him, Elio barely catching himself on his elbows. He tilted his head back and found that Nora, arms wrapped around herself, was standing above him, mascara smeared under her eyes. She cautiously lifted a foot and stepped over him, wandering down the narrow hallway and settling onto the low leather sofa anchored to the wall of their living room. Elio sat up, elbows on knees, and let his eyes rest on Nora’s.

 

He finally stood up and found his way into the living room, sitting down next to her in silence. _For you, in silence_. He smirked.

 

The piano was collecting dust on the opposite wall and Elio made a mental note to sweep and do some housework this weekend. He had been writing so much in the office that their home piano had sat untouched for weeks, Nora preferring the guitar. He knew keeping the place completely clean and dust-free was a necessity, given how minimal it all was. The apartment was almost painfully plain, the two of them having moved after Nora’s mother died, and Elio not being one to undertake home décor shopping.

 

“Tell me you’re not going to lie to me,” Eleonora said suddenly, nervously wrapping a worn quilt around her shoulders. His thoughts of bare walls and dusting cloths interrupted, Elio looked up at her. Her cheeks were tear-stained but her eyes were fierce and demanding. She really wanted to know.

 

“I wouldn’t lie to you, _chèrie_ , I hope you know that.”

 

Nora didn’t look entirely convinced, but she nodded anyway. “I just—” she cut herself off, turning casting her eyes to the ground. “I’m pretty sure my mother wasn’t your first love. If you’re going to tell me the story, I want the true story. Not some fairytale about you and _Maman._ ”

 

Elio nodded patiently. “I wouldn’t dare,” he promised with a twinkle in his eye.

 

“We met at the house near Crema. It was—" he stopped himself for a moment, not because he couldn't remember the year, but because he didn't want to say too much, didn't want her to see him differently. But she was looking at him with those demanding eyes, and he knew he would be telling all as soon as he met her stare.

 

"It was 1983. Summertime, when we would take in those college students. He was writing about Heraclitus." Now he was looking right at her, unable to forget all the times that his own father had levelled with him, eyes locked on eyes, unashamed of himself and the wisdom he had to share. Nora blushed and looked down, her lips parting uncontrollably. It seemed she was more sad than shocked.

 

"He was everything I wanted to be and everything that I wanted in someone else. Beautiful and intelligent, witty and... perfect, in many ways. We fell together like parts of a whole. He was simply the most interesting person I had ever met," Elio said hesitantly.

 

“I loved him with something all-encompassing. And when he left…” Elio couldn’t help but pause again, searching for the words to describe his immense suffering. “It felt like having a most vital organ pulled out of my chest.”

 

Nora, tears welling in her eyes, pushed herself towards her father and allowed salt water to soak through his shirt. “Elio,” she whispered. He waited for her to continue.

 

“Did you stop loving him, ever?”

 

He didn't hesitate.

 

“No."


	3. The Blue and the Dim and the Dark Cloths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oliver is troubled and only worsens when faced with Perlman the Youngest.

**New York City, April 2008**

 

Sunday morning, when Oliver would have normally been taking a walk through a park, lingering at a coffee shop to write up lecture notes, or simply going out to get breakfast, he found himself wandering down 11th Avenue, his eyes scouring the building facades for a sign of Bondesan Trattoria. He had looked it up of course, knew what side of the street it was on, which block of 11th it called home, but that knowledge couldn’t keep his eyes from roaming all over the busy roads and sidewalks, desperate for those memorized words. But he heard it before he saw it.

 

Over the buzz of the traffic, he heard a voice. “ _Grazie, amico_!” It called, and Oliver’s eyes soon narrowed in on the source. A man, lean but no longer lanky, with dark boyish waves pulled into a knot at the back of his head. The hair was streaked lightly with reflections from the sun, giving him a boost of youth and casualness on top of sharp clothing; slim-cut black chinos and a white button-up shirt, the sleeves rolled haphazardly to his elbows, but that wasn’t what caught Oliver’s eye. It was the all-too familiar smirk.

 

For a moment, it felt like everything had frozen in time. Oliver’s heart had stopped beating. There he was, his Elio, his _Oliver_ , right in front of his very eyes. He could have stood there, on that broken slab of concrete, for eternity. It was enough, Oliver thought, to see him; it was enough to know that he was flesh and blood and reality, an earth-shattering reminder of the summer he fell in love. He followed Elio’s eyeline up, up, up, until he saw Nora leaning out of their window, dropping Elio’s forgotten keys down to him.

 

So that’s where he lives. Elio, Nora, and a mysterious third person that Oliver had invented. Some days it was a young woman, a blonde piano teacher with a French accent who was two years Elio’s junior. Some days it was a man; it was a gorgeous, powerful writer, with broad shoulders and a deep voice and kind eyes. In his mind, he could picture them all together in that loft. It was Elio, with his waves grown out, and Nora, all smiles, and the third person, sharing their days together with love and joy that diminished anything Oliver could have given Elio that summer.

 

It was that thought that made Oliver falter. Who was he to knock on Elio’s door—to knock on that third person’s door—and demand re-entry into Elio’s life? It was wrong. It was selfish, and it was _wrong_. So he leaned tiredly against a stray payphone, lit a cigarette, and tried not to cry. By the time he looked back at the doorway where Elio had appeared moments before, he was gone. Exhausted and cold, Oliver turned on his heels to hail a cab.

 

* * *

 

Oliver should have guessed that Nora would be extremely bright. She was brilliant, vocal, and fresh—her work was the best Oliver had seen from a student, and it made his heart flare with pride. He could not get over her. She had said that her majors were music theory and philosophy, but he would be damned if he couldn’t get her to change one of those to classics. His department head had fervently agreed after seeing her work. She was knowledgeable and critical, years ahead of her classmates. She was too good to be let go.

 

Soon enough, leaves sprouted from barren trees and flowers bloomed impressively in the parks near campus; it was nearing the end of April when Oliver held Nora behind in class for the second time. The door had barely closed behind the last departing student when Nora parted her lips to speak. “Dr. Green,” she began, and Oliver could detect the edges of her French accent around the Rs. “I don’t mean to cross any boundaries, but I had been expecting to hear from you.” Her eyes flickered to the door and back again, tracing her escape route.

 

“I don’t understand,” Oliver said, his eyebrows raised. Had he forgotten to send her the notes on her final draft of the Cicero paper? He could’ve sworn he was up to date on all of his grading. “Professor, I only mean that I thought you would have come by _la trattoria_. To see Elio.” Nora looked uncharacteristically nervous now, paying close attention to the ballpoint pen twisting in her fingers. “Oh,” Oliver frowned. He glanced up at the slim window pane in the door and saw students for the next class meandering the hall and checking their watches impatiently. “Do you have a class to get to, Nora?” She shook her head. “Then let’s go to my office.”

 

He propped the door open behind them and they weaved through a throng of tired students until Oliver finally slammed the pad of his thumb down on a decrepit elevator call button. The chrome doors parted with a gasp, and they found themselves alone in the tight space, Eleonora still avoiding his eyes. It wasn’t until Oliver had guided her down to his small office and she had collapsed into a grey armchair that she met his gaze. She had his eyes, Oliver realized, and he kept staring, though he wanted desperately to look away. Nora saw his gaze soften and she stood from the chair to sit in front of his desk, the edge of which had become Oliver’s perch. Oliver tilted his head all the way back and sighed. If Eleonora was upset with him for not visiting her father, then there was no way she would change one of her majors for him. Shit.

 

He stood up, moving to the other side of his desk and tracing the back of his office chair absentmindedly before sitting down. “Nora,” he deadpanned. “What will it take for me to convince you to pick up classics as a major?” Nora seemed to have forgotten that he was ignoring the topic of her father, and she raised her brow questioningly. “Dr. Green—”

 

“Oliver.”

 

“Ah, well, Oliver, I’m already a double major. I don’t really have the room to put anything else on my plate.” She said cautiously. She was kind, too, Oliver thought. She didn’t want to offend him, speaking so delicately. Her voice reminded him of Annella, though he could have been imagining it, wishing for a connection to the past that wasn’t there. “That’s why I’d like for you to drop one of your current majors,” Oliver returned. “You’re just a sophomore, you still have time to get in all of your credits.” He smiled at her welcomingly, internally willing her to just say yes. Nora shook her head and leaned forward in her seat, placing both hands lightly on his desk. “Pro, Oliver, I…,” she trailed off, looking weary. She sighed for a moment and cleared her throat. “My majors are a testament to my parents. Music Theory for my father, philosophy for my mother. _Desolée_ , Oliver, but it’s non-negotiable.” She smiled weakly at him, apologies clear in her eyes. All Oliver could concentrate on was “mother.”

 

 _Mother_. The mysterious third person was suddenly too real. What was she like? He shouldn’t ask, it really wasn’t appropriate, but he did it almost without realizing. “Your mother?” He asked, trying to keep apprehension from seeping into his tone. At this, Nora’s eyes grew sad, and she withdrew a hand from the desk. “Yes. You may know her. Her name was Marzia; her father was a philosophy professor _à_ _La Sorbonne_. She died in a car accident when I was eight.” Nora nearly stared a hole in the ground before looking back up and blinking away tears.

 

Oliver was disgusted by the mixture of joy and mourning and bitter jealousy that blossomed in his chest. _Elio was unattached! Marzia, who was so kind and vibrant, was gone. Nora’s mother was gone. Elio went back to Marzia after he left, of course he did. Probably that very fucking night._ He opened his mouth to speak before closing it again, repeating this practice several times before he knew what to say.

 

“I’m so sorry, Eleonora; I did know your mom. She was lovely and smart and beautiful. She must have loved you more than anything in the world, and I’m sure you feel the same way for her. I could never ask you to change your studies. I hope you’ll forgive me for my ignorance.” He said, sliding his office chair closer to the desk and placing his hand over the one she had left on the edge of the deep brown mahogany. Nora offered him a small smile in return before pulling her hand away and relaxing back into her chair. “Thank you, Oliver.” They let silence rest between them comfortably for a moment.

 

“Oliver,” began Nora, her voice contemplative and slow as she allowed her accent to thicken around his name just as Annella’s had: _Ullivah_. “You should know that he waited. For years. And they didn’t even wed until after I was born.” This made Oliver’s heart stutter. He was shocked by how much Elio had told her, concerned by what she must think of him.

 

He’d only managed being married for a year before it blew up in his face. He didn’t have the courage to call Elio again, to hear Elio ask if he was calling because his wife was pregnant. Or worse, to hear Pro tell him that Elio was out with his replacement; or worse still, to hear Pro tell him that Elio was different, withdrawn and depressed and heartbroken and unable to move forward without him. He had bought a plane ticket to Rome once, but when the flight was cancelled, he couldn’t bear to try again. So he gave up. But Elio had waited? For him?

 

“Nora, I don’t think I could ever explain to anyone just how complicated this situation is.”

 

“He thinks you’re married, but you’re not, _vrai_?”

 

She was determined to convince him, her eyes wide and fierce. Oliver stood from his chair and moved to lean against the bookshelf on his right, glancing over his shoulder out the window. “No, I’m divorced.” He muttered, barely able to keep himself from spitting it out like a dirty confession. He lifted his head to meet Nora’s eyes and found that they were still kind, her brows lifted with openness and the corners of her lids soft and welcoming. She smiled at him and looked away, a quiet laugh leaving her lips. “Oh, this is so inappropriate,” she noted, pleasant humor evident in her inflection.

 

Oliver wanted to laugh with her, but the truth of it made him too sad.


	4. Of Night and the Light and the Half Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marzia and Elio face a problem that neither of them can fully escape.

**Somewhere in Northern Italy, August 1997**

 

“You are being distant.”

 

Elio flicked ashes off of his cigarette and glanced over his shoulder to look at her. 

 

Marzia seemed to grow more beautiful every day, and Elio wasn’t sure what to make of it. Tonight, in her white sundress, bare feet padding over dewy grass, she was a moonlight goddess. Elio could have composed a hundred overtures to her sun-kissed skin, her balletic movements, her flowing hair; he could have written an opera for each word that fell from her lips. But his mind was troubled and he was in no place to craft such pieces, though the divine muse was drawing ever closer to him.

 

Now, she was right next to him, sitting on the edge of the pool, neck elongated, eyes closed. They stayed this way for some time, Elio staring off contemplatively and Marzia waiting for his explanation, listening to the babbling of freshwater flowing in and out of the pool. Unable to deal with his lack of response, she reached for his hand and squeezed.  _ Can’t stand the silence. Grow up. _ He wondered if it was yet midnight.

 

“My father got a letter from Oliver today. He’s thinking of coming to the villa in the winter to complete another book.” Elio was uncomfortable and aroused and angry at the thought of it. It was silly, of course. Oliver would probably bring his wife and however many children he had, and Elio would have his Marzia, who wore his ring, and his Eleonora, who had his name and his curls. Eleonora, who was sleeping soundly in his old wardrobe of a room while he stood out in the grass and thought about two teen-aged weeks. Often he’d thought himself a fool for all the time he had wasted thinking about lost love of the past when he had two great loves in his life in the present.

 

At this, Marzia pulled the cigarette from Elio’s fingers and took a drag herself. Elio watched her curiously as she dropped the cigarette and crushed it under the heel of her foot. 

 

“Shall we spend the holidays in Lyon?” she asked. Her shoulders were tense, but her eyes were soft. Understanding. Elio shook his head.

 

“And deprive my parents of spending Hanukkah with Nora? No.”

 

Marzia stood from the pool and moved behind Elio, her arms wrapped around his waist and her chin perched on his shoulder. “Well, I won’t have you flirting and fidgeting over the entirety of Nora’s school holidays,” she chided gently. Elio didn’t respond, though he could tell she was worried about him.

 

“Why don’t I tell Annella it would make me uncomfortable?” Still, nothing.

 

Elio turned in her arms, knocking his forehead against hers before pulling away to lean against the side of the pool. He cast his eyes over the expanse of greenery, the starlight giving the villa the look of a dreamscape; grass a bluish-loden, the slick leaves of Anchise’s trees sparkling with jade tones. It was like some kind of luxurious rainforest. His view caught the edge of the boulder where  _ il cauboi _ once sat and turned his gaze back to Marzia.

 

“It’s been years and years, now,” he whispered. “Why does it still sting?”

 

Marzia traced the outline of his arms with her fingers, nails sliding down his skin until he shivered and she moved away. “I love you, Elio,” she promised. “And I know that you love me.”

 

“But?”

 

“But, your ‘heart has left its dwelling-place, and can return no more.’” Her tone was excruciatingly measured, as if the quote was on the far reaches of her memory and any invasive inflection could push it out of reach.

 

Elio looked to her with eyebrows raised. “John Clare, really?” He asked, a bemused smirk playing on his lips. Marzia returned his expression with the ease of an old sparring partner. “John Clare,  _ vraiment _ .”

 

Whenever Marzia said something like this, Elio found himself infuriated with Oliver. It was unfair, he thought, for someone to come into his life and poison his heart for anyone else. Marzia, who was perfect for him in every way, was forced to coexist with Oliver’s unignorable memory. Despite everything they had gone through together—the late nights in college, the loss of her parents, the birth of their daughter—Oliver held a vise-like grip on Elio’s heart. Some days it felt as if his marriage to Marzia was the equivalent of putting million-dollar flowers into a broken vase; on others, the very same metaphor seemed to make their union even more valuable, even more joyous. They were so lucky, he knew, to have found each other at the right time while still having been together all along.

 

It took only one long stride for him to land in front of her, his hands splaying across her waist as he pulled their bodies together playfully. Laughing into the warm air, Marzia tilted her head back and wrapped her arms around his neck. They swayed together in the orchard for a moment, wrapped up in each other snugly. Marzia pressed her lips to the side of Elio’s neck, breathing him in. 

 

“I will tell Annella that we would love to have your parents join us in France for part of the holidays. For Christmas until the New Year.”

 

Elio placed his chin on the top of her head and pulled her tightly to his chest. “You know they would love that,” he hummed into her hair, depositing light kisses on the crown of her head.

  
“It’s too bad, though,” she said with false disappointment. “That will leave them far too busy to host someone at the villa in the winter.” Elio smiled up at the heathered-grey moon, the blissful stars, the obsidian of the night. His whole universe was here, in this villa, in this moment. Marzia, Nora, Maman, Papà, the grass under his toes, the sound of the water in his ears, the cicadas, the moonlight, the memories of years past mingled with the scent of peach and apricot in the air. “ _ Oui, mon amour. Trop mal. _ ”


	5. I Would Spread the Cloths Under Your Feet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oliver and Elio collide.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the inordinate length.
> 
> Deeply felt thanks for all of the kind comments and kudos.

**New York City, May 2008**

 

Approximately forty-five minutes into sorting through his closet, Oliver decided it was taking him too long to get ready. He was nearing fifty years old, but he had devolved into a teenager getting dressed for a date; he had no clue what he should wear to see Elio again. The decision was only rendered more difficult as he thought about what Elio might think of him in each shirt, each pair of pants, each shoe. Elio knew him too well. He would be able to tell how long it took him to dress with only a cursory glance.

 

Oliver wandered away from the open closet door again, this time dressed in a pair of khakis and a light blue shirt that reminded him of the button-up he had abandoned on the edge of a bed twenty-five years ago. He posted it on a worn white hanger that hooked along the bed frame near the windows; he tucked his espadrilles under the edge of the windowsill; he left a whole part of himself behind on those soft yellow sheets and left another piece of his heart at a train station in Rome. It still stung.

 

He made his way to the front of his apartment, tightening his brown dress shoes and tucking the laces beneath the arch of his foot. He checked himself. Keys, wallet, sunglasses, watch, cell phone, university identification card, his worn out messenger bag loaded with a laptop and a thick folder of grading over his left shoulder. He let his head rest against the front door frame and collected himself.

 

It was seven in the morning now. All he had to do was get through a 9 a.m lecture, a quick department meeting, and two hours of student appointments in his office. He could leave campus by three, head to Lower Manhattan, and be outside of Elio’s apartment door by four in the afternoon. _Nine hours_ , he repeated to himself, _just nine hours_.

 

Oliver started walking, out the door, down the steps, past an abandoned potted plant that had been dying on the street for months now, down the street. He wouldn’t call Elio before he went, no way. He just had to go, or he would lose his nerve and he knew it. He still hadn’t decided what he would say.

 

Would he buzz up to the apartment, say “It’s Oliver, do you remember?” Maybe he would wait until Elio came down to the trattoria to get an espresso, or wait until someone else opened the door to the staircase, then jog up to the Perlman apartment behind them. Maybe it would be Elio. Maybe he would turn around when he heard someone catch the heavy door behind him. Maybe they would be trapped in that narrow stairwell alone together. Maybe Elio would look at him, halfway up the stairs and breathless, and kiss him. Oliver could pin him up against the wall like he had in Rome. They would fall right into each other like they did on Monet’s berm, seemingly all alone in the universe, tethered to one another and in love. Like nothing had changed.

 

Oliver didn’t snap out of his daydreams until an office door snapped shut in his face. He couldn’t think like that, not when there was a very good chance that Elio would ignore him, slam the door at first sight. Perhaps worse, Elio could invite him up to the apartment, give him a glass of apricot juice, let their bodies touch casually, feel nothing at all, and send Oliver on his miserable way. So he just could _not_ think like that.

 

To Oliver’s surprise and veiled dismay, the day flew right by him. He had filed grades away in the low cabinet beside his desk and punched them into the online server that was as slow as dripping honey; he’d met with two different failing students, and he didn’t even doze off in his Classics meeting. Hoisting his bag back over his shoulder, he slipped out of his office and locked the door behind him. He was debating whether or not to take a taxi downtown when he saw him.

 

“Thanks again, Elio. I can’t believe I left that paper on the printer,” Eleonora was saying. She was walking hurriedly down the steps of the library, towards an Elio clad in a blazer and slim black pants, a silver watch glinting on his wrist. “Of course. I had a break between classes anyways, it’s fine,” Elio said, completely conciliatory and kind, a soft smile on his lips. They continued to speak, leaning against a low wall slung between the wide building and the green of the quad. Oliver could barely breathe, and he certainly couldn’t think.

 

He turned away from them for a moment, smoothing his shirt and hitching the strap of his bag an inch higher on his shoulder. He shut his eyes forcefully, willed himself to breathe, just breathe. What was Elio doing here, catching him off-guard on the very day he had planned to see him? Where was he teaching? What is happening? Oliver swallowed and straightened up, swivelling around to find that Elio and Nora were now strolling leisurely towards Barnard, towards Broadway, away from him. Forcing himself to abstain from sprinting, he strode purposefully towards them, completely unaware of what on earth he was doing.

 

“Elio?”

 

Oliver had caught up to them in a few long strides. Elio turned at the sound of his name and stopped cold for a moment. He was caught, off-guard, unawares, unprepared. His mouth fell open for barely a second before he found himself again. But Oliver didn’t care about his mouth; in this moment, it was all about his eyes. Recognition, shock, terror, want, placid waters. All in an instant.

 

Elio took a couple of steps towards him. “Oliver,” he said, inflecting only a whisper of excitement and a heap of surprise. He was always a craftsman. Oliver reached out a hand to shake, hoping to receive one in return, but instead he got an embrace, the still-shorter man clasping him quickly and feigning a kiss to the cheek. “I should say thank you,” Elio said, putting some distance between them.

 

“Nora says your class is a breeze. You may single-handedly save her GPA,” Elio finished, glancing over his shoulder at an unamused Nora. Oliver rolled his eyes, unable to keep himself from relaxing back into their back-and-forth.

 

“I doubt Nora needs a GPA boost. She’s the only one in the class who would even think about describing it as anything but a hellscape,” Oliver replied readily. He could compliment Nora all day long, especially with her father standing right across from him, still boyish and charming despite his obvious maturity.

 

“Sounds like a class I should sit in on.”

 

“You should,” and then: “I can’t believe that you knew I was in New York and you never called.”

 

Elio shifted uncomfortably, a false smile still painted on his face. He twisted his torso a little and called over to Eleonora.

 

“ _Chérie, vas-y sans moi_.”

 

“ _Es-tu certain?_ ”

 

“ _Oui. Sois prudente_.”

 

Eleonora waved goodbye to Oliver and headed away, her backpack slung lopsided over one shoulder. She glanced backwards once only, reaching the edge of Broadway, but the two men were gone.

 

* * *

 

Oliver settled into a booth for two near the back of the cafe, Elio having insisted upon buying them both a coffee to get out of the busy university green space. He traced the edge of the beaten up table in front of him and took measured breaths. He had no clue what Elio had said to Nora, his French was far too limited. But he had guessed it was some variation on “please feel free to leave while I try to let your philosophy professor down gently.” He had waited so anxiously to see Elio again, to hear his voice, but now that the conversation was fast approaching, he was sick thinking about it.

 

“One coffee, one americano,” Elio announced, placing the beverages on the table. Oliver pulled the coffee towards him and lifted the lid, allowing steam to flood out. Elio slid into the other side of the booth and lifted his drink to his lips. They sat wordlessly together for a few minutes, sipping their coffees and taking in the ambience of the tiny shop they had chosen for this godforsaken confrontation.

 

“So,” Oliver began, “what are you doing for work these days?” Elio lowered his cup to the table and straightened his posture.

 

“Well, I do far less than I used to, actually. I’ve been working a little as a session pianist for a small record label in Brooklyn. Today,” he pulled at his lapel with a smirk. “I was a guest lecturer for a family friend that teaches at Juilliard.”

 

Elio paused to take a sip of his drink before continuing. “I still get pretty regular royalties checks for some of my past writing work,” he explained. “My connection at Julliard wants me to apply for a position there, but I’m not so sure it’s for me.”

 

Oliver nodded appreciatively. “Well, I’m sure you would be a wonderful instructor. I imagine you taught Nora piano and guitar?” Elio bobbed his head in agreement but waved his hand in dismissal. “Nora’s my daughter,” he said. “I was never hard on her like her professors are. Not to mention that the woman is brilliant; she has been since she was a girl. It wasn’t at all like having a true student. What about you, how is Columbia?”

 

Elio settled back into the booth, waiting for Oliver to respond.

 

“Columbia is… good. I’ve been there for years now, so a part of me wonders if it will ever be time to change, but I love the department. My coworkers are all great to work with, really. I guess maybe one day I’ll want to get out of the city, but not now,” Oliver shrugged with a small smile. He really did love living in the city, but he knew that would likely end once he got older.

 

Elio looked surprised. “You and your family still live in the city? I thought you would’ve moved to a more suburban area once you got married.”

 

“We’re no longer married. Divorced.”

 

Elio leaned up in his seat, the emerald green upholstery behind him expanding, erasing his indentation in the old cushion. “I’m sorry, Oliver. How long ago?” This was where it got tricky.

 

Oliver’s smile faltered. “1985.”

 

Elio’s eyes widened in surprise before they hardened and he looked away. He was seething. Oliver wasn’t sure if he should shut up and just let him be or if he should blurt out his only explanation before Elio stormed out of the restaurant or had him forcibly removed for being a terrible person.

 

"Elio," he said, leaning over the table with an urgency he hadn't experienced since their final night in Rome. "After we divorced, it felt wrong to call you, to interrupt your life at college or your vacations in Crema with my own troubles. I had no idea if you would want to see me again, not after the way that I left and the way that our phone call ended. It even feels wrong to interrupt your life now, but if I don't say this, if I don't—"

 

" _Chiudi il becco_ , _americano_ ," Elio muttered, a waitress over Oliver's shoulder approaching quickly.

 

“Hey guys, just wanted to check in and let you know that we’ll start serving a short dinner menu here in about ten minutes. Just let me know if I can get you guys anything at all,” she said, a warm expression of kindness on her face. Her eyes lingered on Elio for a beat longer than necessary and she smiled a little brighter at him before walking away. Elio was oblivious.

 

“Elio, I’m sorry,” Oliver said plaintively, his eyes wet and his hands laying palms up and open on the table. Elio, who had been examining his napkin with excruciating concentration, looked up at him, clearly pained.

 

“When we were still on campus, you asked me why I didn’t call you when we got to New York,” Elio said plainly. It wasn’t a question, but Oliver wasn’t sure if it was rhetorical, either. So he nodded gently, an affirmation that, yes, he was a hypocrite.

 

“It’s been a very long time, Oliver. I didn’t want to bother you with memories of a summer from years and years ago,” Elio said, his eyes trained on Oliver’s, unflinching. He lifted his drink again and sipped calmly, though Oliver saw a storm behind his eyes.

 

“Elio,” Oliver gritted his teeth in anguish, trying to fight the miserable urge to cry in the middle of the small restaurant. “Elio, I’m not sure how you could think that it would bother me. How could you possibly think that?”

 

Elio lowered his glass to the table, leaned forward in his chair, and, with force, said “You were married, Oliver. I was certain that you were married.” Elio looked disappointed in him, the kind of look Oliver had not anticipated, but immediately decided he hated.

 

Before Oliver could even think to respond, Elio was off again. “And you know,” he began, “if it were 1984 or 1986 or, goddammit, 1999, I would have called you the minute my plane touched the ground, but we’re both older now, Oliver. I could not bear to eat dinner with your wife and meet your children. I couldn’t do that. So I didn’t call.”

 

Oliver didn’t respond. He knew Elio wasn’t finished, even if he himself wanted to be. He sat and sipped from his coffee again, waiting for Elio to complete his speech.

 

“The way that you left was unavoidably difficult. For both of us. But your phone call? And your ‘do you mind?’ That was… it was _omicidio_ , Oliver, murder. You told me you were getting married, you wanted permission from me, you told me you remembered everything, you—” Elio straightened up and set his jaw, trying to conceal his outrage. “You called me by your name.”

 

“And then you got divorced one year later and didn’t tell me? How could you do that?”

 

Elio was bitter, betrayed. Oliver could see it etched across his face. “The worst part is,” Elio said, “I can’t even be angry with you. I can’t be angry with you because if you had come back, I wouldn’t have my daughter, I wouldn’t have had my marriage, though your _fucking_ phantom didn’t make it the easiest union in the world. And after even everything, I can’t hate you, because I’ve always loved you. But you made my life so hard, Oliver, so _fucking_ hard.”

Oliver nodded for what must have been the thousandth time that evening. He looked at the man sitting across from him. He was older, clearly older, but he was exactly the same. He was Elio. Elio, Elio, Elio, who knew nothing and everything all at once; Elio with short curls, with long waves, with a child, with his own life and career; Elio, who was cut open and bleeding in front of him. He parted his lips to speak, but found that he has no words of his own. So he borrowed someone else’s.

 

“Elio, I’m sorry. But I… ‘I love as I have always loved, with all my soul.’”

 

“Kipling?”

 

“Kipling.”


	6. But I, Being Poor, Have Only My Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A heartbroken Elio seeks guidance.

**Milan, March 1985**

 

“Oliver.”

 

Elio could feel the hot breath on his neck, behind his ear. Oliver’s hands, his soft skin, touching him everywhere,  _ everywhere _ ; their bodies like heat-seeking missiles, colliding and destroying, a sweet agony that he would have drowned in forever. He wasn’t conscious of how many times he had cried out his own name, but he heard it loudly, clearly. 

 

He couldn’t remember where he was, though he really didn’t try to recall; the sheets were blindingly white and everything was sensory overload—all he could hear was Oliver, his breathing, his voice. All he could see was skin on skin, their limbs entangled under those lily white sheets. Oliver’s hands on his biceps, Oliver flipping him over, Oliver’s face, Oliver’s lips, Oliver’s Star of David, Oliver, Oliver, Oliver.

 

“Elio,” Elio whispered into the older man’s neck. When he lifted his eyes to those of his beloved’s they were cold, angry. Elio flinched, but he felt thoroughly paralyzed by Oliver’s piercing stare. “Grow up,” he said, his jaw set and his brows furrowed in disgust. Elio felt something ice-cold on the hand that cradled his rib cage and he found that it was a plain gold ring on Oliver's finger. The longer he stared, the brighter it seemed, the icier it felt against his skin, until Elio cried out in pain.

 

Elio awoke with a gasp, flushed and covered in sweat like heavy morning dew. “ _ Va te faire foutre _ ,” Elio muttered, sitting up in bed and running fingers lazily through his hair. He sat up and let his body fall back against the headboard, shutting his eyes and willing the tears to dissipate. He had listened to his father’s advice and allowed himself a level of sadness, but had been months now. Months and months in comparison to two weeks. That damn phone call didn’t help much. 

 

He heard his parents in the kitchen in the mornings after the phone call, muttering about going to the wedding in a sloppy mixture of English and German, trying to elude his prying ears, but he knew. He knew, he knew, he knew. 

 

Occasionally, when he was tired or upset, he would hold that soft, billowy blue shirt against his chest and imagine another life for the two of them. Some nights, Oliver would call off his engagement, or get even get a divorce, and fly to Milan. He would come into the house through the door in the back that Papà always forgot to lock. He would climb the stairs to Elio’s room, take off his shoes, take off his clothes, and crawl into bed. Elio would wake up in his arms, Oliver strong and happy and blissfully asleep in his bed.

 

Other nights, Elio would arrive in New York for college or an audition or for a big trip; he would casually linger around Columbia, looking for his tall, blond, American Adonis. They would spot each other crossing a street at night. Oliver, overcome by emotion, would guide him into an alley and kiss him breathless. They would fall into Oliver’s bed and he would call off the marriage, all because of Elio. All because they loved each other too much to let go.

 

He tried not to fantasize; it only lead to more vivid dreams, and those were devastating. They were so real, so visceral, so intoxicating. When Elio was having an especially good dream, he could feel Oliver in his bones, he could feel his weight and sense his presence. Waking up was like being shot in the back.  _ Omicidio _ . Murder.

 

Elio swung his legs over the side of the bed and stretched, pulling his arms side-to-side over his head. He closed his eyes for few seconds. He had to get the image of Oliver out of his mind. He blinked and his eyes caught the neon red glow of his alarm clock on the bedside table. 5:30 a.m. His father would be awake.

 

He trod over to the ensuite bathroom at the other side of his bed and silently brushed his teeth in the hazy light from the burgeoning sun. He yanked a t-shirt and jeans over his long limbs, cursing Oliver’s memory for waking him so early on a Saturday. Elio peered over the counter at the reflection of his hair. It had grown out since December, the curls flopping over his face like some rogue, high pile carpet.

 

Elio slid out of his room and eased past his parent’s ajar door, sneaking down the stairwell and emerging in the house’s main entryway, the hardwood squawking under his sock-clad feet. He padded into the study, which was smaller and less crowded than the one in Crema. Samuel was standing at the bay window implanted at the front of the room, his eyes dancing over the rain-drenched road and the flickering streetlights. Elio cleared his throat and his father turned to look at him calmly.

 

“I thought I might’ve heard you upstairs, Ellie Belly.  _ Tu ne fais pas la grasse matinée aujourd’hui _ ?” he asked, borrowing a turn of phrase from Annella. Elio shook his head in response and leaned haphazardly against the closet that they had transformed into a large bookcase. Samuel nodded agreeably and sat in the windowseat, patting the place next to him in silent invitation. Elio joined him on the trapezoidal cushion, leaning against the far window and propping his feet up in his father’s lap with a yawn.

 

“Nightmares are often the worst when they take the shape of dreams,” Samuel said, his reading glasses hanging from a cord around his neck. Elio remained unresponsive, digging his fingertips into the cobalt blue upholstery below him. Samuel took a long breath and exhaled, turning his eyes towards his son. “They trick us into believing, for only a moment, that everything we crave is ours. They are not malevolent things, dreams. Perhaps they think we should take solace in their ethereal comforts,” Samuel mused, his gaze flickering up to look out the window. “But I know as well as anyone that a dream is never so simple.”

 

Elio looked up and found that his father had tears at the corners of his eyes, though he blinked them away without consequence. “Dreams can be human that way,” Samuel continued. “They believe what they’re doing is for the best, but we cast them as villains nonetheless.” At this, his eyeline dropped to Elio and they held eye contact for a moment before Elio turned to look out at the rain. 

 

“I suppose so,” Elio finally said in response.

 

“You and I both know that he loved you very much, Elio,” Samuel said.

 

Elio, distraught at this unwelcome reminder, began to cry in earnest, pressing his face into the breast pocket of his father’s shirt. Had he kept his head up, Elio might’ve noticed how Samuel’s gaze remained trained on a stack of American-posted correspondence on his desk. Had he been more perceptive upon entering the room, he might’ve noticed how Samuel had been reading a letter by lamplight, and how he discarded the letter on a vacant bookshelf when Elio entered. Had Elio not stayed out so late the night previous, he would have heard the contemplative, advising conversation that Samuel had over a long-distance call yesterday evening.

 

Elio might’ve noticed a million more things about his father if he’d only looked hard enough.


	7. I Have Spread My Dreams Under Your Feet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oliver comes to a realization.

**New York City, July 2008**

 

They didn’t see each other again for weeks. Oliver was miserable. As the spring semester rolled to an end, Nora stopped lingering in the lecture hall after his class. Oliver saw Elio again at the crowded, end-of-the-semester cocktail party hosted by a mutual friend. They spoke only briefly, sharing a hug and several long looks from across the room. At the end of the night, they both left at the same time, awkwardly standing side-by-side on the sidewalk as they tried to flag down a cab. When one pulled up to the curb, it was Elio who held the door open with a quiet sigh. “Come on,” he invited. “We can split it.”

 

Oliver nodded, burying his fear with a nervous swallow and pacing towards the waiting car. He sat down behind the driver’s seat and glanced over at Elio, who was studying the world passing by through Oliver’s window. Oliver cleared his throat and caught the eye of the curly-haired man, who shifted closer in his seat. “I should have called,” they both said, deep voices overlapping in a throaty chorus. Then dead quiet as they locked eyes. Oliver broke first.

 

“I think I may have come on too quickly when we met in the coffee shop. I don’t mean to… pressure you into forgiving me, or even seeing me again.”

 

“It isn’t only that.”

 

Elio paused as Oliver leaned forward, bracing himself for what was to come next. He wasn’t sure if he could survive Elio telling him to go for good. If there was one thing he wanted to fix in this world it was this.

 

“We need to talk. I have to know what you want. Because I’m all or nothing, Oliver.”

 

The cab driver was beginning to pull over and break in front of Elio’s building. Elio reached for his wallet, but Oliver reached out a hand to stop him, shaking his head.

 

“I’ll get it.”

 

Elio nodded and went to open the door, not losing his eye contact with Oliver, waiting for a response.

 

“We’re leaving for Italy tomorrow. We can talk after,” Elio muttered. He shoved the door open and slipped lithely out of the taxi. Oliver pushed off of his door, sliding over the seats to look out the window as Elio nudged the heavy security door open and disappeared into the dark hollow of his stairwell

 

Once the week started back, the final set of exams came and went, and Oliver was left in the city alone, teaching two online summer courses for the irresistible extra cash. It was easy, really. He could sit in his apartment, leaning back in the morning sun that streamed through the window, recycling old assignments from his previous semesters and grading papers online. It was far easier than his fall or spring workload, and it gave him a distraction from the state Elio had left him in. All or nothing. Oliver wanted it all. He would've suggested more than all, if he'd been able to find his voice when it mattered. Oliver wanted to be consumed by Elio.

 

He had emailed Professor Perlman for the first time in a couple months, detailing a strikingly original paper on Ovid that a student had submitted for his latest assignment. Samuel had emailed back straight-away; he suggested a couple of relevant pieces, two of which were available online and one that he scanned from his own library and attached to the response. 

 

At the end of the message was a description of the weather around the villa that weekend, and when Oliver scrolled further down the page, he found a line underneath that read “Wish you were here.” Oliver clicked on the first attachment at the bottom of the note. It was a photo, likely taken by a visiting neighbor, of Samuel and Annella sitting at the dining table outside, laughing and looking at each other fondly. Behind Annella was Elio, and beside him was Nora, both them smiling identically at the camera; on either side of Samuel and Annella were Mafalda and Manfredi, both of them markedly older, but still looking happy and healthy, offering soft smiles to the photographer.

 

Oliver stared at the photo for an hour without even realizing it. He zoomed and scrolled, memorizing each new line on Samuel’s face, the placement of every curl and wave of Elio’s hair, the fibers of the cloth napkins on the table, the condensation droplets on the curve of Mafalda’s jug of apricot juice. The cursor from his mouse was buzzing around the photo as fast as he could move it, tracing the edges of the table and jumping from face to face. Before he knew it, it was as if the computer had a mind of its own. 

 

Exiting from the attachment; underscoring those four words,  _ wish you were here; _  closing the message; logging out of his account; opening a new tab; hovering over the search engine text box until it read  _ last minute international flights; _  opening a booking site; selecting a non-stop Air France for late that evening; typing in his name, his zip code, his credit card number.

 

By the time Oliver snapped out of his stupor, there was a boarding pass and a page of TSA regulations lying warm in the tray of his old printer. Once he realized the gravity attached to what he had done, it was too late to panic or change his mind. He stood from the desk and frantically began to pack his bag.

 

By the time his worn leather suitcase was stuffed to the brim with swimming trunks and loosely folded button-ups, the large clock on the wall opposite his bed was chiming 6:30 p.m. He crammed a dozen printed student papers into his oversized laptop bag, stowing his MacBook and charger inside as well. He stared for a moment into the full-length mirror that leaned against the slim wall space between his doorway and closet.

 

How different did he look after twenty-five years? There was copious blond-brown stubble coloring his jaw line. His muscle tone had faded, though when he turned to look at himself, he decided his stature was still pretty much the same. He needed to leave the apartment now, really, but he just wasn’t sure. He bent at the waist to cuff his dark khaki chinos and shifted in the mirror. He’d almost worn the same blue shirt he was wearing when he saw Elio on campus, but he discarded it into the laundry bin instead. He chose a lightweight forest green shirt and a pair of tan espadrilles that made him feel oddly young and free again.

 

Oliver closed his eyes. He just needed to relax. “Relax,” he commanded under his breath, hoping the imperative would coax his racing heart to keep a steadier pace. He tried not to think of Elio, of the villa, the berm. He just had to get there and apologize. He would follow Elio forever if that’s what it took. He would climb the  _ Alpi Orobie _ , he would swim across an ocean, he would do whatever Elio asked of him if it meant they could be together again.

 

He shoved his passport into his pocket and ran out to hail a car.

  
  


The flight felt quicker than it was, Oliver fidgeting and dozing in his seat. He debarked in Linate, his whole body on autopilot as he collected his suitcase from the overhead compartment and slung his messenger bag over his shoulder. He wandered out to the arrivals exit, a wave of déjà vu crashing over him. Soon, he found himself in a cab, directing the driver on the 45-minute drive to a hamlet outside of Crema. The driver, just as the one so many years before, took the scenic route, avoiding toll roads and racking up extra expense for Oliver. He didn’t mind. He needed time to think.

 

He wondered if the villa was as quiet as it once was, if Mafalda or Samuel or  _ Elio _ would come out of the house in confusion at the sound of the taxi pulling up. Oliver rolled down the window as they breezed through Crema, no one mingling quietly in the piazzetta, though one woman was posting an advertisement in the window of the bookstore. Oliver’s gaze remained on a newly installed bike rack fused to the side of a building, where several new Bianchi bicycles were anchored between older models and a few brightly colored American models. One of the bikes looked incredibly familiar, but he knew he shouldn’t assume. It was early in the morning, and there had to be several doppelgänger bikes littered among summer guests in town. The car was now gliding down one of the old unpaved roads that he often found himself recalling in his dreams, and he marveled at the way that some things never changed.

 

When Oliver could see the house a few yards away, he asked the driver to stop in his rusty Italian. He went to pay him in cash, but the man pointed at a card reader freshly installed in the back of the center console.

 

“ _ È obbligatorio _ ,” the man said in explanation. Oliver nodded and pulled his wallet out of his pocket, withdrawing a rarely-used Visa and running it through the slot. The card reader hummed for a moment before beeping in approval, and a small receipt spurted out of a tiny machine near the steering wheel. The driver ripped it away from the dispenser and passed it to Oliver without bothering to turn around.

 

“ _ Buona giornata _ ,” the driver said warily. It was now only six in the morning, and Oliver picked up his bags and trod silently down the street, towards the aged columns that stood proudly outside of the Perlman villa. As he approached the front entrance, it occurred to him that he had never gone in or out that way, and he wondered if anyone in the family ever used it. He came to a newly incorporated fence that swung in the breeze flowing under the outdoor archway, separating the orchard from the road and front yard. He placed his hand on the top of the fence to still it for a moment. 

 

This was it. He could turn around, walk down the street until he reached Crema and could hail another taxi, go back to Linate and board the first flight to the eastern seaboard. Or he could push the gate open and walk inside. He could enter the house through that old kitchen door. Maybe he would find Mafalda getting ready for breakfast, or he could keep walking toward the study and find Samuel walking around the limitless bookshelves, his hands shuffling carefully through a stack of academic correspondence, half hand written and half printed emails. He swung the fence door open.

 

He was completely incorrect about what he would find. When the fence creaked a little louder than it had in the wind, a curly mop of hair shot up from its place underneath a peach tree. Elio was perched on a stray, gnarled root that budged up at the foot of the plant. He cradled an acoustic guitar in his hands with a scoring pad balanced on his crossed ankles, a ballpoint pen between his lips. The moody morning light painted him as a figure from a Antiveduto Grammatica, his lips plush and pursed, his fingers poised over the fretboard with balletic composure. The pen fell from his mouth when he saw Oliver come around the building’s façade. 

 

When Oliver’s eyes finally landed on Elio, his steps faltered. He hadn’t expected to Elio for at least a couple of hours. The younger man had slept in until nine, ten, even eleven on some mornings when Oliver was last in Italy. He had grown out of it, Oliver supposed, though he doubted it after noticing the shadows beneath his eyes.

 

“ _ Passo ridotto _ ,” Oliver heard himself whisper, and he let his bags drop to the slick grass below. Elio discarded his guitar, placing the instrument behind him, against the uncharacteristically broad tree. The half-filled scoring pad flipped onto the ground on top of the forgotten pen as Elio rose in one swift motion. For several breaths they stood there, face to face though yards apart, like a wide shot in an American Western. Oliver wanted to drink the whole moment in; the way that the fruitful branches of the dark tree framed Elio’s figure in a sunny portrait; the way that he could smell the peaches and the tomatoes and the apricots mixed with the clean scent of freshly trimmed grass; the resounding of Elio’s guitar, whose strings still hummed from its jarring placement on the tree, singing a sonata with the buzz of cicadas and the gargle of pool water, the distant lapping water at the edge of the lake. But he couldn’t drink it, not at all, because his eyes were glued to Elio’s, searching their murky depths for a clue of emotion. The orbs were deeply guarded.

 

Oliver knew that the ball fell into his court, so he blinked. Once, twice. Then covered the distance between them with his worn espadrilles and collided with him.

 

Elio’s waist under one hand, the other drowning in Elio’s hair. Oliver pressed him into the trunk as they kissed, first soft, and then searching and hungry, lips on lips and tongue stroking tongue. Against his lips, Elio mewled, speaking into Oliver’s mouth, as if the words were pouring out of both of them.

 

“You’ll kill me if you stop.”


	8. Tread Softly Because You Tread on My Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two men meet in the middle.

**Somewhere in Northern Italy, July 1983**

 

Elio had been lying awake for hours. He rose early that morning, around five, and found his way into the kitchen for a glass of water. When he returned to the room, he found Oliver still asleep in their bed, his left arm still lifted close to the pillows so that Elio could rest against him. Elio climbed back into bed, sliding Oliver’s arm away from him. Oliver usually woke up before him anyway, and though he loved the electrifying feeling of their bodies touching, he knew that moving away would make it easier for Oliver to go running without bothering him.

 

Elio lay there for quite some time, but was never able to drift away to sleep again. It had been a week since he and Oliver had met on the terrace and fallen into bed together. Elio was beginning to remember that his time with Oliver was finite, that he would disappear to the states before long. This made him feel far more ill than he’d felt after their first night together. He worried that he would never sleep again, not without Oliver’s sun soaked skin pressing against his. He wasn’t sure that he could eat breakfast without cracking the top of Oliver’s soft-boiled egg. He was most afraid that he would find himself unable to fall in love again, not when he had Oliver’s memory for comparison with every future kiss and embrace and orgasm.

 

With that in mind, Elio knew that he should savor this moment, the weight of Oliver next to him in bed, and fall asleep. But he couldn’t. He steadied his breathing and closed his eyes instead, hoping that some restful reclining would take the place of the sleep he was missing. 

 

It must have been nearing eight when Oliver stirred beside him. Elio remained still and silent. If he was awake, then Oliver would act the way he did when Elio was awake. If Elio feigned sleep, then he might be offered a glimpse into Oliver alone, Oliver without anyone in the world but himself. So he lay stagnant, willing Oliver to simply exist in his presence. He felt Oliver flip onto his side next to his body. Oliver leaned over him for a moment, his face pressing into Elio’s bare stomach, and he dropped feathery kisses on his abdomen. Elio pushed himself towards a nearly meditative state, trying not to react to Oliver’s touch.

 

Oliver propped his head up in his hands, withdrawing from Elio and sitting cross-legged to survey him. Elio wanted to open his eyes and discern the intent behind Oliver’s actions, but he dared not ruin his experiment. Before Elio could process what was about to occur, Oliver began to speak in hushed tones.

 

“I dreamt of you again last night,” Oliver said drowsily. “You make me crazy. I’m already thinking about the first morning that I’ll wake up in New York without you, and I despise the thought of it.”

 

He paused.

 

“I want you to come to New York with me, I think. I don’t know. You’re so young, you’d have to finish high school. And my parents…” he trailed off. “I should keep a diary like you do, but I’d rather talk to you myself, as you’re aware. But I don’t want to waste our time together talking about my musings. I’m sure you would tell me you understand, if you were awake.”

 

Elio had the sudden urge to open his eyes and agree emphatically.

 

“But that’s the point, isn’t it? You aren’t awake. Yet, I know you would agree. Sometimes I feel like you are brand new to me and in others I believe we’re the same exact person. As if I know you inside and out. Every inch of your body, every ounce of your soul.  _ God _ . Recently I’ve had an intense desire to ask you when your birthday is, as if I’ll be here to get you a present or plan a surprise party for you. But you would have told me if it were in the next week or so, and since it isn’t, I’d almost rather not know.

 

“I’ll think of you every time I see anything remotely Italian. I’ll think of you all summer long for the rest of my life. I’ll think of you when I hear The Psychedelic Furs or any classical piano. Or guitar. I’ll think of you when I see curls, or when I see  _ Armance _ on a bookshelf or a peach in a bodega. I’ll think of you constantly. The last thing I need is your birthday, a day on which I would think of only you, forever.”

 

Oliver was truly beginning to sound distressed, and Elio wanted to sit up and hold him, but he knew that would only add to Oliver’s discomfort, having the sleeping and awake Elios combine in one fitful morning. 

 

“But another part of me feels like I should ask, so I can plan around it. Could you imagine if I got married or had a kid or anything, really, anything, on your birthday? Could you imagine me forcing your memory to share a space with the day I present my thesis or a day I miss my train?”

 

Elio ran Oliver’s words on repeat in his mind.  _ If I got married or had a kid _ . Elio could feel the jealousy and fear coiling in the pit of his stomach. How could Oliver possibly get married after they had been together? How could Oliver even think about looking at someone else?

 

“No; if I knew your birthday I would spend it in bed all day, listening to Liszt and Bach and Busoni. I would look at those Caravaggio paintings that look just as you do in the midnight moonlight. I would soak myself in Celan and eat only peaches and drink only apricot nectar and suffer.” Elio felt the bed shift slightly and decided that Oliver must have flinched at his own words. 

 

“Remind me today to ask you about Yeats,” Oliver continued. “I meant to bring it up yesterday, but I spent so much time with your father in the study that I just lost track.” He paused. Elio’s whole body was on fire. He wanted to speak so badly.  _ Why do you want to talk about Yeats _ , Elio thought, pushing the words from his mind so that they would land at Oliver’s feet. “I was reading an old collection of his before I left New York. The other day you said something, it reminded me of one of his love poems, ‘Aedh Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven.’”

 

Oliver shifted again, moving to lay down next to Elio, lying on his back with arms bent behind his head. “Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths / enwrought with golden and silver light, / the blue and the dim and the dark cloths / of night and light and the half light, / I would spread the cloths under your feet,” Oliver recited. “I have the hardest time remembering the last lines, even though they’re the famous ones. It’s nonsensical.”

 

Elio’s palms were itching in anticipation. How could Oliver forget? Elio could’ve recited the poem a dozen times in full for him in that very moment. He silently pushed the tip of his tongue against his teeth and held in a frustrated sigh. Every part of him silently longed to fill in the blank, to shoot up out of bed and part his lips and say the words that were so fucking true that it hurt to remember them.

 

Oliver twisted to face Elio. “But I, being poor, have only my dreams; / I have spread my dreams under your feet…” he trailed off. Silence.   
  


“Tread softly because you tread on my dreams,” Elio murmured. He opened one eye to find Oliver staring at him with the tiniest of smiles on his face. “I knew you were awake, you goose,” he said, though the smile didn’t reach his eyes and the words seemed more and more hollow the longer they sat in the air between them. Elio reached for him, turning on his side to pull them together. Oliver slipped out of reach, sliding off of the bed and standing up to face him. “C’mon,” Oliver said. “Let’s go swimming.”

  
  


They walked to the lake in silence, shoulders brushing intermittently, wind catching the glossy leaves in the nearby trees and whirling noisily around them. When they were coming very close to the water’s edge, Oliver took off in a sprint, stepping out of his espadrilles and tossing his shirt behind him. He flung himself into the water with an excited cry, leaving Elio to quietly pick up his shoes and shirt, tucking them at the base of a tree where he, too, removed his shoes and shirt. 

 

When Oliver emerged from the water, sliding his fingers through slick hair, Elio sat and watched him from grass, his feet barely skimming the water’s surface. Oliver swam over to him. “Do you not want to swim?” Oliver asked, though they both knew where Elio’s mind was, tracing over the conversation in their bedroom that morning. Elio didn’t reply. He looked up at Oliver and mimicked his cold, blank stare from earlier that summer.  _ We have to talk about this _ , Elio thought.  _ You have to talk about this _ . Oliver frowned and used Elio’s ankle as leverage to pull himself closer to the bank. 

 

“I shouldn’t have said all that this morning. I’m sorry,” Oliver said, his eyes traveling from Elio’s big toe up to his sternum and then his lips. Elio slipped from the grass into the water in one smooth motion, glad to feel Oliver against him again. “I’m glad you said it,” Elio replied. They moved away from the land for a while, floating around each other in the bucolic morning quiet until Elio spoke again. “Do you really speak to me while I’m asleep?” he asked.

 

Oliver dropped from his floating and began to tread water. “Yes,” he intoned, his voice low. Elio followed suit, dunking his head below the surface before coming up for air. “Wake me up for the next time.”

 

Oliver nodded, reaching out to touch Elio’s shoulder before flipping onto his back and floating again. Elio swam back and forth across the lake. What had Oliver said during all those nights and mornings when Elio had been too tired to listen? Elio wondered if Oliver had ever told him anything about his family, his life in New York. Elio never asked. It only reminded him that he was not a part of that world; Elio couldn’t join Oliver in the city. Knowing about the places and boyfriends and girlfriends and family that Oliver would return to without him only stung. 

 

Elio swam back towards Oliver, the sinew of his arms beginning to burning riotously. Oliver was unmoved, and Elio wondered if there was anyway for him to see all of him, to see the thoughts inside of his head and the way he acted when he was all alone, or only with his father, or only with Chiara. What was he like in the city from whence he came? Did he laugh the same, did he grab and tickle and mock-wrestle the same way? Did he fuck men? Did he fuck women? Was he monastic? Elio hoped desperately for all of the above.

 

“January 17th,” Elio whispered into the hollow of Oliver’s glistening ear. Oliver’s eyes flickered open. “Your birthday?” he asked, though he already knew the answer. Elio didn’t respond, instead burying himself beneath the water and pulling Oliver down with him. They struggled in each other’s arms for a moment, then resurfaced in a sputtering blob of entangled limbs. 

 

**Somewhere in Northern Italy, January 2009**

 

Elio had been standing out on the terrace for nearly an hour, despite the chill that was seeping through the fibers of his sweater. It had to be nearing midnight by now, and he knew that he should go back inside, warm himself by the gated fireplace, and then burrow himself into Oliver’s large frame. He would probably wake him, he knew, but that was all the better. If Oliver was awake, he could compel him to kiss his icy lips, warm his frigid toes, nip at that one spot just below his ear that caused his whole body to ignite. They could have that perfect, almost lazy sex that seemed to happen when one of them woke up in the middle of the night. Elio was fending off the cold air just thinking about it. There could be no better way to celebrate a new year of life.

 

It was at the very moment that Elio thought to go inside that Oliver appeared next to him, holding a perfectly plated, cubic slice of tiramisu in his hands. “ _Bon anniversaire, mon amour_ ,” Oliver said in the terrible accent that Elio adored. Elio took a second to absorb the scene. Oliver’s face was lit dimly by the flame of the lone candle staked into the dessert. His blond hair, though streaked lightly with strands of grey, took on an orange halo in the glow from the little fire. Snow, downy and feathery, was dropping slowly to the ground all around them. Oliver wasn’t wearing billowy, but he was wearing a shirt Elio had grown to love just as well, the soft, green button-down he’d worn that summer, on the morning that Elio had kissed him under the tree and felt the two of them merge back into the single body and soul that they shared. They had walked to the water’s edge and had each other in the grass, and Elio could still see that shirt crumpled in the emerald blades as they had waited for the sun to rise up fully and expose them to the world.

 

Elio jutted his chin forward and extinguished the candle with a low whistle, placing the saucer on the railing of the balcony and pulling Oliver flush against him. “My birthday?” Elio asked, planting a kiss on the column of Oliver’s neck. “Did Nora tell you?” Elio’s parents were not much for birthdays, usually letting them pass by with only an extra glass of wine or a special meal. Nora, however, had inherited Marzia’s obsession with lavish birthday affairs, and though Elio had indulged her in parties with her friends for her own big day, he refused any kind of ceremony for his own. Oliver shook his head in belated response, lifting Elio’s chin to look him in the eye.

 

“Did you think I would forget?”

 

Elio blinked and it hit him as quickly and unexpectedly as a car collision. “Oh,” Elio said, his eyes growing wide with surprise, his hands running up the sides of Oliver’s rib cage.  Oliver shook his head wistfully. “You think I haven’t spent the last twenty-five years crossing this date off my calendar as if it were the anniversary of my own death?” Elio cast his eyes away for a moment. Oliver bowed his head and sought the crook of Elio’s neck, pressing his lips just below Elio’s ear in the way that he had been longing for.

 

“You think I haven’t been soaking myself in Celan and eating only peaches and drinking only apricot nectar and suffering like Christ on a cross every 17th of January since 1983?” Elio might’ve flinched, only it wasn’t accusatory, it was mournful, it was sad. Oliver lifted his head and knocked his forehead against Elio’s as they both shut their eyes in unison. 

 

“You think I haven’t dreamed of the moment when I could hold you in my arms on January 17th?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> merci beaucoup for putting up with this dreadfully yeats-inspired narrative.
> 
> you are all the loveliest persons one could dream of knowing.


End file.
